Only Happy When It Rains
by shipperfey
Summary: Misery loves company. HouseCameron.


Title: I'm Only Happy When It Rains 

Author: Alice J. Foster

Summary: Misery loves company.

Category: Angst, Romance.

Spoilers: Season 3, possibly up to 3x04.

Pairing: House/Cameron

Rating: **NC-17**/Adult

Started: 10/13/06

Finished: 10/19/06

Warnings: Sex. Mild violence. Lots of angst.

"Only Happy When It Rains" 1/1

by Alice J. Foster

_I'm only happy when it rains_

_I'm only happy when it's complicated _

_[…_

_Pour your misery down on me_

He is halfway through the scotch bottle when he hears the door opening; he doesn't turn from his seat on the ledge of the building to look at her. He doesn't need any confirmation – he can feel her pitiful gaze burning his back.

By the time she makes her way to him, he's already gulped down two more shots, straight from the bottle, and he doesn't try to put up a front or pretend like he's not drunk. Or high.

He'd taken the first pill as soon as he'd woken up from his restless nap in his office, sometime between 3 and 5 a.m. - that one had just gotten rid of the pain. The second and third went down as he looked at the lab results and saw them for what they were – a death omen for a three year old little girl. He'd taken half of the leftover pills twenty minutes after he'd called the time of death, and instead of dry-swallowing them, he'd washed them down with the first sip of the brand-new bottle of scotch he'd gotten from Cuddy for his birthday.

Jessica had been the name of the little girl; dozens of patients every week between Diagnostics Medicine and the clinic, and he never remembers their names – that's the way he likes it. But this time the name sticks with him like ready homemade pasta against a wall. He thinks that maybe another shot and the name will be gone, so he takes it. The liquid warms his esophagus and stomach, but he can still remember.

He's almost forgotten she's there by the time he feels something wrapping itself around his shoulder: a jacket- HIS jacket. She brought him his coat and the thought makes his throat constrict. Of course, he knows she probably couldn't help it; it's in her nature and it drives him absolutely crazy but right now it just upsets him. The gesture reminds him that there's still some hope out in this fucked-up world, and that's exactly what he doesn't want to see.

It's usually easy to detach himself – not from cases, but from patients. But this time, it was somehow different. Maybe it was because he'd been at the clinic when this adorable little girl came in, with brown curls and a runny nose.

_And a fever of 105…Viral Pneumonia._

Antibiotics had caused her condition to deteriorate; two days went by until they'd realized that the little girl had Systemic Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis. By the time they'd caught it, her liver, lungs and heart had been destroyed by her overactive immune system. Immunosuppressants were too late; there was nothing they could do.

And it was _all his fault_. He should've realized it sooner, even if the little girl hadn't complained of joint pain or any other symptoms - **even** if all blood tests came back negative for any immune diseases.

He should've known.

"You're gonna catch cold," she tells him and instantly kicks herself for saying such a stupid thing.

He half-snorts, half-chortles and she can smell the scotch in the air. "The alcohol's keeping me warm."

She glares at him. "You're a shitty liar, House."

"Am not," he protests, too dramatic to be real.

"Biology 101 – alcohol doesn't warm the body, it just fools the brain into not feeling the cold. It's how homeless people always end up freezing in the winter."

"Oh, yes – blame the alcohol, won't ya? It has nothing to do with the lack of room in public shelters or mental disease or viruses." Then he swings his leg over the ledge so he's straddling it, facing her with mischief in his eyes. "But you're such a good little bookworm, aren't you? Teacher's little pet, Miss Know-It-All… I'd say this isn't the first time you fell in love and tried to seduce your mentor, is it? Maybe just the first time you failed."

Her eyes don't register the pain he must've expected, instead she smiles and moves into his personal space, having learned all his tricks. "I have not tried to seduce you."

He scoffs. "Pity. What happened? Good-boy Wilson sent you up here to make sure I hadn't jumped yet?"

She barely acknowledges his question. "I figured you were cold, decided to bring you your jacket." She knows he doesn't believe her, so she gives in. "Ok, I drew the short straw."

His laughter echoes around them. "Well, you didn't have to come up here. You could've hid in the stairwell for a short while then told them I was sleeping it off in my office or something."

"That would've been cheating… and you know how I feel about cheating," she adds with a smile, the two of them trying to pretend they didn't just watch a three-year-old die just two hours ago.

"You know they can't canonize you until you're dead, right? No St. Allison in this lifetime."

She shrugs, "That's why I need to make sure you don't trip over the edge of the building. I need at least one living witness to my miracles."

There's no hesitation as she moves to sit next to him, both her legs on the inside while his still straddle the concrete.

Her hands reach for the nearly empty bottle and she chugs the liquid like an expert adolescent in a fraternity party – the parties she missed as she drove her dying husband to clinics and hospitals and counseling and lawyer offices. He looks hurt when her eyes meet his again, but she's not sure if he's just missing the alcohol bottle or if it's something deeper.

She realizes her own stupidity at coming up here with nothing but her lab coat to keep her warm; instead of lecturing him, she should've left while she could still feel her lips and fingertips.

Once again the bitter taste of scotch hits just a few taste buds before she swallows it down, the generous shot her fourth of fifth. She's not disappointed – it takes just a few seconds for her nerve endings to react to the toxins, aided by an empty stomach and exhaustion.

"Slow down," she hears his whisper almost against her ear but she ignores it.

This was why she always hated getting high… or drunk. Carelessness and stupidity were common side effects; but she also became extremely selfish. Chase had seen it last year.

He tries to reach for the bottle but she's faster than him. The last taste is even bitter than the others but the aftertaste is almost sweet. She hands him the empty bottle and he drops it over the side of building, satisfied to hear the glass shattering against the parking lot pavement.

"Ass," she states, not sure if she's talking about the throwing of the bottle or everything else.

"No, Dr. Cameron, tell me how you _really_ feel," he mocks.

Despite herself, she laughs.

"If I'd know you were this easy to entertain while drunk, I would've put some brandy in your morning coffee two years ago."

She bites her lower lip, trying to get some feeling back but the cold's too much. He slips the jacket off his shoulders, and wraps it around her smaller frame. Before he can move back too far, she turns her head and kisses him – her brain tells her that as long as her lips are numb and she can't feel a thing, a kiss is not a kiss.

He's surprised for a second or two but soon his lips respond against hers and she can taste the scotch in his tongue and breath, much better than she can in her own. His tongue reaches out to hers and it's just as she thought – no hesitation on his part, nothing but confidence and expertise as he caresses her.

It's more intimate than most of the sex she's had before, she realizes with some sadness.

There was always a part of her that wanted him to be bad at this, as bad as he is with other types of human interaction. If he was bad, then she could walk away with some shred of dignity and some sanity, but it's too late now.

She responds in kind to his assault, and his arms pull her closer so that she's almost sitting in his lap. He's still as demanding and bossy and sure of himself as usual, the newness of the action not affecting him in the least. She wants to yell at him, wants him to make him regret every mean thing he's ever said to him but instead she just keeps moving her lips against him.

Everything is assaulting his senses – whatever's left of them after the alcohol and the vicodin and the freezing cold. The taste of her is _exactly_ what he predicted – pure heaven. Sure, it's possible most women half his age and his subordinate would taste like this; it was as much about the wrongfulness of the action as her actual taste. But Cameron was the only female half his age working for him at the time, so he was inclined to pretend it was all her - youth and willingness coming together to create the perfect taste.

He continues to pull her against him, trying to alleviate the growing pressure in his groin but she's still too far away. So he puts a quick stop on the make-out session, but before he can suggest that they move this to his office (or Wilson's – more privacy and less glass doors), she's standing up and moving away. He still sits, confused like she's a test result that doesn't make sense.

She stops before running back inside the building and down the stairs into safety. Without turning to him, she speaks, her voice as cold as the air around him: "I told you I had not tried to seduce you before; I think we both know I _can_, in fact, seduce you any time I want."

The shaking in her voice betrays her words and before he can crack a joke, she was gone.

It took him longer than he likes to find her – a limp, a subsiding erection, vicodin and scotch making a deadly combination on his steps. When he pushes the women's locker room door open with his cane, she's in the process of pulling a woolen coat on. The unshed tears in her eyes don't stop his words. "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" He demands and she finally meets his eyes, if only to glare at him.

"Getting dressed. In the _women's_ locker room," she adds pointedly.

"More like _woman_, singular. You know very well you're the only female in this department. Now answer my question."

It's her turn to scoff. "Go to hell, House."

He invades her personal space as he pushes her against the cold steel lockers. "What did you think you were doing, up in that roof?"

"Making. A. Point." She replies, not an ounce of fear in her eyes.

"… of showing how much of a bitch you can be?" He adds as a question.

She squints and it's almost enough to make him pull back. "You men are such jerks."

This time he does pull back, just slightly. "_What_?!"

"First you tell me I failed at seducing you… then when I do try, succeed and walk away, you whine about _that_. Make up your mind, House."

He scoffs, "Oh, come ON. You know as well as I do that this has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I seemingly offended your feminine wiles. You came to that roof and you started that kiss, regardless of what I said or did. If there was a point to make at all, it's that maybe I _was _wrong, maybe you aren't damaged like I thought."

There is pain and just the slightest glint of hope in her eyes, but he isn't nearly done.

"You're worse," he adds and both her hands move to his torso as she pushes him away. His good leg nearly crumbles but he holds on to the metal lockers in front of him as he continues to deliver his lines. "You're not after me because you have some desperate need to take care of my crippled self – you're after me because you can't have me… and when I finally agree to taking this a step further, you run away like a little girl." He turns around to face her as she slips her messenger bag onto her shoulder. "Or maybe I wasn't wrong the first time and tonight you were just trying to make your rounds. Tell me, first you do Chase, then you move on to me. Who's next? Foreman? Maybe Wilson? He's not as old as me, but you two have a lot in common, with your pathological need to be with people who need you."

She strides purposefully towards him and he prepares for the blow that's sure to come – but her hands never make contact with his face or torso. Instead her nose is so close to his that he can almost taste her again. "Fuck. _You._"She swears between gritted teeth.

He proves that he's not afraid of death by closing the distance between them and capturing her lips with his. She protests wildly but his hands are holding on to her like she's his favorite cane. One hand of his is firmly holding her head to his so she can't pull back, while his other hand is pulling her squirming body flush against his, his bad leg woven in between hers.

Unable to break the contact, she responds by biting down on his lower lip as hard as she can – he's never been happier for Vicodin, as his mind registers the disjointed sharp pain. Without the opioids, it probably would've been enough to make him stop, but now it just spurs him on as he turns them and slams her against the metal locker, holding her body in place with his and freeing one of his hands to roam.

Something in the back of his mind tells him he's forcing himself on her and he tries to pull back, but suddenly her mouth is pulling him back in. She's much faster than he is – probably because she doesn't have a bad leg to worry about or vicodin to slow her movements -, and soon her hands have undone his belt, button and zipper. He moans into her mouth, still tasting his own blood and she sighs even as her hands push his pants as far down as they'll go, which is not nearly far enough where he's concerned.

She's moving like lightning against him but he doesn't have time to be confused. Instead he just reaches for her hair and tugs on it so her lips release his and he can meet her eyes. He doesn't like what he sees there.

"Is this just a pity fuck?" He asks as he remembers her sorrowful gaze when she'd first appeared on the roof.

She shrugs. "Does it make a difference?"

He thinks about her question for a second before shaking his head. "Not really. It'd still be nice to know, though."

She blinks, long and dramatic. "I don't know."

He nods at her honest answer, momentarily satisfied. He takes blind steps backwards, bringing her with him until the back of his leg hits the bench in the middle of the room. Their mouths un-fuse again as he sits down, stopping her before she can follow him. He pushes the woolen coat off her shoulders and stops to examine her body; like probably any man working in the hospital, he's examined her body many a time where stethoscopes were not involved.

But he hasn't seen her this flushed, this warm or this mad before. It is a deadly combination, he realizes as he pushes her sweater up so he can rub against the skin there. His stubble leaves angry red streaks across her stomach that quickly fade.

She is surprised that he's taking his time as he carefully undresses her. When all her clothes are on the floor, she finally manages to turn the focus on him long enough to remove his shoes and shirt. She tries to remove his pants but his hands stop her, allowing her to move it low enough that she can see his tented underwear, but not enough that she can see his leg.

She would've never pegged him as ashamed of anything, let alone his bad leg.

Deciding not to interpret this as another way for him to keep her out, she gives in when he pulls her onto his lap. His fingers make quick work of her intimate spots, and she wonders if there is anything the man can't do (other than follow orders, that is).

She moans against his neck, missing the protection veil of inebriation from earlier. She's sober now, as she desperately tries to keep from freaking out about the fact that she's somewhere between second and third base with her boss, her mentor – and they're about to go for a home run – in the locker room at work. It's an insanely bad idea, but she can't stop now.

The heat radiating from him is making her sweat. She grinds against his hardness once more, feeling the tip of it escape through the fly of his underwear from the friction. He looks down at it, almost as if surprised and she holds back a smile and the rolling of her eyes. She strategically positions herself just above him, touching slightly and making them both shudder.

His delicate movements from when he undressed her are suddenly gone as he grabs her hips and pulls her down. She bites back a scream, wondering briefly if Chase and Foreman are just outside the door, hanging out at the Diagnostic lounge and wondering where she is.

She meets his thrusts, trying desperately not to make him overexert his leg – even if she can see in her mind his shit-eating grin the next morning if his limp got worse.

The lack of prophylactics doesn't scare her as much as it should – he read her blood test results and she ran complete bloodwork on him after he was shot, including tests for dozen other contact diseases out there that can't be tested by blood, but she's still not worried as the burning silk of him enters her time and time again, pushing against everything that's inside her.

She's still mad and confused, but the reasons why are lost to her now as her hands trace the contours of his chest, ignoring the bullet scar a few inches below. The rhythm picks up, breathing pattern and heart rate increasing relatively. His mouth blindly seeks hers one more time before she crashes down and down and down. Arms wrap around her as her body spasms like her brain is full of parasites.

At least a few minutes of diminished thrusts pass before she can pick up her pace again, trying to help him. She can feel him swelling up even more inside her, his engorged member pulling and tugging at her inner muscles but he still doesn't come.

He pushes her off him and before she can protest, he's turning her around and pulling her back down so they're not facing each other anymore. He resumes his thrusting and the new angle causes a small orgasm to break from her. Skillful hands cradle her bouncing breasts and squeeze; she moans as inaudibly as possible, rewarded by a throaty laughter from behind her.

He doesn't seem to tire and she realizes he must've taken at least five vicodins throughout the day; no wonder he hasn't orgasmed yet. She comes twice more before his fingers clutch her hips hard enough to leave bruises, and he surges even deeper inside of her as he finally comes.

His forehead is damp as he presses it against her back and she contorts herself enough until he's pressing against her side, so she can run her hands through his hair.

Images of a dead 3-year-old return to her mind, as well as memories of the things he said to her. She cringes but doesn't move away from him because she understands him now. Understand _it_.

She's damaged. So is he. And she knows he won't change – and she doesn't want him to, because even when he says the meanest thing to her, there is always some truth behind it. When he pushes her away or when he asks her to be miserable with him, it's always real. He's the only person who's ever heard of her late husband and instead of looking sorrowful, he prodded her until he knew all the details – she's not the altruistic person everyone makes her up to be.

Maybe now he understands what he didn't in that restaurant two years ago: she's attracted to him because he's older and because he's messed up. But she doesn't want to fix him up like he thought (and still thinks).

_He's beyond fixing._


End file.
